


What's Mine is Mine

by The Little MerBucky (blue_pointer)



Series: Death Comes Calling [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bucky is not Louis no thanks, Central Park, Dark Fantasy, Drunk Tony Stark, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mugging, New York City, Possessive Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Predator/Prey, Rescue, Shrinkydinks, Stucky - Freeform, Tony Stark Has Issues, Vampires, Violence, World War II, fighting with your best friend, goddamn vampires, lesteve, relationship drama, what if anne rice vampires had personalities, winteriron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 11:43:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10639152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_pointer/pseuds/The%20Little%20MerBucky
Summary: Afterlife sucks when your best friend won't let you kill indiscriminately anymore. Still, somehow Steve and Bucky make it work. But when Bucky accidentally horns in on Steve's chosen prey, sparks fly. Can the relationship that transcended death survive the intrusion of a small, suicidal engineering student?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have way too much vampire a/u in my head.

 

Steve Rogers loved killing.

He’d become addicted to it in the war. Back then, no one thought twice if they stumbled across a platoon of slaughtered Nazi infantry. No one looked too closely. And though tales began to circulate through the German troops of  _ Der weisse Junge _ , the ghost of the Third Reich’s Aryan daydreams, small-boned and delicate like a bird, with a sweet childish face and nearly translucent pale skin, but an appetite for blood and carnage that put the devil himself to shame, no one believed it. Not really. And as Steve never left any victims alive, there was no one to corroborate the tales.

Bucky was different. He didn’t enjoy killing. When he had to, it was quick and efficient. People’s necks could be snapped just like chickens’. But he preferred not to. Steve called Bucky’s preferred feeding method ‘catch and release.’ He thought it was ridiculous. They argued about it a lot.

Steve didn’t see the point in letting people live who’d seen your face, could identify you later should suspicions ever arise. But Bucky’s kindness had only gotten them into trouble once so far, and they’d left Europe after that unpleasantness. They were both more comfortable at home, and safer in the new world where only minorities and immigrants believed.

In time, modern forensics forced Steve to curb his favourite pastime, turning it into an occasional hobby. A hobby with which he was obsessed, but a hobby nevertheless. As they approached their first century together, Steve had cut down to one kill a month, which Bucky could tolerate. But his endless obsessive need to find the next victim was wearing thin.

It was their third bottle of wine, and Steve was still talking about the new candidate he’d found. Bucky simply could not get him to shut up. “Why don’t you paint something for me, Stevie?” he begged. “I haven’t even seen you draw for weeks.”

That seemed to perk Steve up for a moment. “Oh, I did draw him, Buck.” He sat up, felt around for the school satchel that was never far from his grasp. “I been watchin’ him sleep this week. You know he’s an insomniac? Poor kid. He really needs someone to put him out of his misery.”

Bucky didn’t feel being found miserable should carry a death sentence, but Steve was very fond of claiming he was putting an end to his victims’ suffering. He passed Bucky a sheet of onion paper, the careful charcoal sketch of a young man with dark hair, full lips parted in sleep. He looked ready to be kissed, but that was likely Steve’s device more than a true-to-life fact of the subject. “He’s pretty,” Bucky told him, passing the paper back to Steve. But Steve’s victims were almost always pretty, now that he had to choose them so carefully. His portfolio was a gallery of funerary art, featuring one angelic face after another, most taken in their youth, all of them possessing something special, a certain air, a presence, some small candleflame of brilliance Steve had greedily snuffed out. It made Bucky’s stomach cramp with a feeling that was not hunger.

Steve liked to show off his kills before he made them. Bucky had learned to keep busy when Steve was in that stage of his stalking. He didn’t like to see them. If he did, he just felt worse. Seeing them alive had moved Bucky to interfere with Steve’s kills more than once in the past. It had nearly destroyed their relationship each time. They’d barely survived the last one 40 years ago. It had taken them this long to make things right. In the big picture, the arguments were never worth the strain. There could be nothing worse than spending eternity alone.

Steve told Bucky that he would be cured of his compassion in time, that the older he got, the less human he would be, but Bucky wasn’t so sure. He didn’t really want that, but also, he wasn’t sure how the process worked. Steve had lost the bulk of his humanity the first time he’d fed. But Bucky’s seemed more stubborn to go. Perhaps it was because he’d never killed for pleasure, and only killed by mistake once.

That had been his first time. Steve had turned him loose in the heat of a firefight. Through a hail of bullets, desperate for blood, Bucky had turned on the wrong side, tearing the throat out of the signaller as he was sending a message. As soon as the man’s heart stopped beating, Bucky had felt calm enough to think, and was horrified by what he’d done. He’d stumbled away grief-stricken, as Steve took care of any survivors.

Steve had stopped caring as much who won the war after he turned, but he held a personal grudge against the Germans for having captured and hurt Bucky. It was his first lesson in Steve’s posthumous possessiveness, and Bucky really should have taken it to heart. Since then, he’d learned the hard way not to interfere with what Steve had claimed as his. Now, decades later, Bucky knew better.

But Fortune had a way of turning her wheel in a way that suited no one.

Bucky was out that night after having fed. He’d escorted the young lady home, made certain she would fully recover within the next few days, and was headed back to their apartment in Brooklyn. He was just passing a bar on his way to the train station--Steve thought it was endlessly hilarious that Bucky still chose to use human forms of transportation--when he saw a young man being thrown out. He was drunk, and had clearly just been cut off. But he didn’t seem happy about it.

“I got money ...a lot!” he was telling the large man who was trying to go back inside the bar. “I’m rish! You have to sherve me, I’m rish! An’ charming!”

“I don’t care how much money you got, kid. You’re outta here. Go home and sleep it off.”

“Do you know who I am?!” the young man was gesticulating wildly. “I’ll shue you! I’ll shue you for refushing me shervish! You’ll shee!” Bucky happened to notice he was waving around a large wad of bills, and they weren’t twenties. He surreptitiously searched the street to see if anyone else had noticed. More than one person had. Sighing, he backed into the alcove of a closed shop front to keep an eye on the boy.

Having realized the bartender was gone, the young man went on talking to himself, drunkenly, angrily, attempting to put his money into his jacket pocket and failing. He stumbled down the street to an expensive car with its windshield covered in parking tickets. Cursing, he wiped them off as if they were snow, and then struggled to find his car keys. When he finally fished them out, of course he dropped them in the street, nearly losing them down a sewer grate. As he was bending to retrieve them, two questionable characters approached him from behind.

“Hey, you need help?”

“You probably shouldn’t drive.”

“I’m a good driver. The besht!” the young man insisted, taking three tries to pick up his keys. “Could win the grand prix.”

“You’d better give us your keys, man.”

“We can’t let you drive like this.”

“Like this? Like what? Handshome? Brilliant? Always drive like that.”

“Yeah,” one of the men said. The other took the opportunity to snatch both keys and money out of the boy’s grasp.

“Hey. Me my keysh!”

“Sorry, kid. Why don’t you sit down and rest? We’ll make sure your car gets home safe.”

“No!” The young man fumbled a phone out of his pocket and started dialing madly. The first thug snatched it out of his fingers.

“Let me hold onto that for you.”

“Yeah, give me that leather jacket, too, while you’re at it.” The one holding the keys had just produced a switchblade.

“Washout, I know kung fu!” the young man said, starting to sway on his feet in what might have been a drunken version of monkey style. The two thugs just laughed.

When he wanted to, Bucky could move faster than the human eye was capable of tracking. “Go home,” he told the robbers, hoisting the one with the boy’s phone up by his collar.

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” the one with the knife asked. “Put him down!” He slashed clumsily at Bucky, who was no longer standing within reach.

He threw the first thug at the second, but not before taking the boy’s phone back. “Here.” He handed it back to the young man. The robbers scrambled to their feet in a tangle of limbs, preparing to flee. “Keys,” Bucky told them. They dropped the car keys as they ran, and he calmly walked over to pick them up.

“Thanksh, Batman,” the young man said. “Offer to buy you a drink but I’m cut off.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky told him. “I’m gonna get you a cab.”

“Don’t need a cab,” the young man told him. “Have a car.” He pointed at the luxury sportscar.

“You’re not driving home,” Bucky told him, holding onto the keys.

“Okay, fine.” The boy opened the passenger door and climbed in. “You drive.”

Bucky’s shoulders sagged. He supposed he’d asked for that. Well, he might as well see this through to the end. He climbed behind the wheel and turned on the ignition without further protest. “What’s your address?” he asked, but when he looked over at the passenger seat, the boy was fast asleep. Sighing, Bucky reached over and patted him down until he found his wallet. “Hope you haven’t moved since this was made,” he told him, heading for the address on the boy’s driver’s license.

The Park Avenue address turned out to be a mansion with high-tech security. Bucky carried the boy up the stairs and had to use his fingerprints to open the front door. A computer’s voice greeted them once they were inside. “Sir, you appear to be inebriated again.”

“Yyyyyyyyep!” the young man woke up to answer, leaning heavily on Bucky, but no longer needing to be carried. “Thash me, luscious lush.”

“Do you require assistance? There is an unknown party inside the house.”

“Unknown party?” The young man began to wake up, looked around, warily, then grinned, sagging against Bucky. “He means you. Jarvis, meet Batman. Batman, Jarvis.” He attempted to walk, but was doing more of a mime routine than actually propelling himself anywhere.

“Um, hello.” Bucky glanced around. He couldn’t sense anyone living, but there was no telling if a security guard might be watching from a control room somewhere.

“Coffee please.” The boy pointed down the hall, so Bucky headed in that direction. “Thank you, coffee,” the boy said, giggling drunkenly to himself. They passed a doorway into a large kitchen, where a coffee maker had just turned on.

“You should lie down,” Bucky told him. “I can bring you the coffee.”

“Couch!” the young man said, snapping his fingers. A cushioned couch was pushed out of the wall adjacent to the breakfast counter. With a mental shrug--what would young people think of next?--Bucky carried him over to it and helped him lie down.

“Oo. Shedushing me, Batman,” the boy giggled. “But we only jusht met.”

Bucky shook his head. Sleeping in the kitchen didn’t seem to be anything new, as the couch had arrived with pillows and blankets. Bucky drew one of the blankets over the boy and propped him up with pillows. “Are you gonna be alright? Is anyone else home?”

“Shhhh.” The young man put a finger to his lips. “You don’t hafta shedush me, big boy. I’m alsho a shlut.”

Bucky shook his head. “I’m not seducing you.”

“Why not?” the boy sounded offended. “I’m attractive. You’re Batman. What’sh not to like?”

“Interesting logic.”

“I know,” the boy sighed humbly. “I’m geniush.” He nodded against his pillows, turning onto his side. “Hold me?”

“I’m not seducing you,” Bucky told him again.

“I’m lonely!” he protested loudly. “And I’m tired and unloved. And an orphan.”

“None of those sound like reasons to seduce you,” Bucky told him calmly.

“Pleashe, I feel sad! Pleashe, Batman, pleashe!” He was protesting awfully loudly for someone drunk and half asleep.

Bucky sighed. “Roll over and I’ll rub your back.”

The boy complied quickly, though not before removing his jacket and shirt. Bucky’s eyes narrowed. If he weren’t able to smell it for himself, he’d say the boy wasn’t really drunk. “Shee, Batman? I work out. Look, mushlesh.” He started to flex underneath the blanket, and Bucky just shook his head. “You know you want me.”

“I do want you...to go to sleep,” Bucky told him.

“No fun,” the boy whined. “Sho mean to me, Batman. All the time, sho mean.” Bucky sighed, reaching down and gently rubbing the boy’s shoulders. “Hmmm. Nishe.” He smiled against the pillows. “Handsh feel good. More.”

Bucky was moving his thumbs to work on the boy’s spine when one arm snaked out from under the blankets, wrapping around his leg. He paused, looking down. “Ohhh, Batman,” the boy sighed. “I’m sho lonely.” And suddenly his lips were pressed to Bucky’s knee. “Give shome sugar, Batman.” He giggled at himself, finding this phrase funny.

“No,” Bucky told him, trying to back away. “Sleep.”

“Shleep,” the young man nodded, kissing his way up Bucky’s thigh. “After.”

“No sleep after,” Bucky told him, starting to panic. He didn’t want to hurt the boy, but this was wrong. “No after.”

“Mkay,” the young man agreed amiably, burying his face in Bucky’s crotch. It was mortifying. Not because he was being sexually assaulted by a drunken child, but because his body was reacting. This would never have happened if he hadn’t just fed. But there was sufficient blood in his body right now for him to react. Much to Bucky’s chagrin.

“Ohhh, big,” the boy sighed, opening his fly with far more dexterity than someone so drunk should have possessed. “Nishe, Batman,” he said, pulling out Bucky’s dick.

“Now hold on!” Bucky told him. “Whoa, whoa...oh.” The boy’s mouth was on him, and it had been some time since anyone had attempted to give Bucky pleasure in this way. Steve rarely bothered anymore. The closest they usually came was when Steve fed from him. If he was in the mood, he’d take blood from Bucky’s common femoral artery. But that rarely led to this, partly because by the time Steve was sated, Bucky didn’t have enough blood in his body anymore to sustain an erection. “That’s...oh.” Bucky found himself collapsing onto the couch. “Don’t…” He was panting. How embarrassing.

“Pantsh off,” the young man let go of him long enough to demand. “Take your pantsh off.” He pushed up Bucky’s shirt to kiss and lick his navel, slowly climbing up Bucky’s body.

“S-stop!” Bucky told him, gently shoving the boy back. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Wanna fuck you,” the boy said, looking up at Bucky with languid brown eyes. “Wanna fuck you, Batman. Pleashe?” He leaned forward, trying to kiss him.

“What--no!” Bucky gripped his shoulders to hold him off. “Stop this. You need sleep, not sex.”

“Shex, then shleep,” the young man attempted to negotiate, reaching for Bucky because he was being restrained from climbing his body.

“No sex,” Bucky told him firmly. “Just sleep.” The boy was making little whimpering sounds, unable to reach Bucky. In retrospect, he wasn’t sure why he finally gave in. Maybe he was too sympathetic to the young man’s pleading. Maybe he was still just as human as Steve said he was, and the prospect of receiving oral sex was too good to pass up.

“Fine,” Bucky told him. “But if I let you do this, you have to go to sleep.”

“Nnn, Batman. ‘me your cock,” the boy purred, gripping Bucky’s hips and swallowing him. Long seconds of torture followed, at the end of which, the young man had fallen asleep, cheek pillowed on his thigh, and Bucky’s erection was full and hard, and covered in saliva. He chuckled softly at his own foolishness, and the young man’s clumsy drunken sexuality, sliding out from underneath him to tuck him in properly.

Dressed once more, Bucky left a mug of coffee next to the couch and let himself out. The computerized voice did not wish him farewell.

He was just turning toward the park when Steve hit him like a freight train going 120 miles per hour, knocking him across the street into a large elm. “Why, Buck, why?!” Steve’s slender fingers were curved like claws, gouging his chest, completely shredding his suit. “Why’d you do it!? He’s mine! I told you he was mine!” It took all of Bucky’s strength to shove Steve away, leaping to the highest branches of the tree before his friend could dismember him.

“Stevie, stop! I didn’t know he was yours!” He hadn’t even meant to let things go so far with the boy, regardless of who he was. This was so much worse.

“I told you, Bucky!” Steve flew at him, grabbing his throat in a choke hold. He kept going, leaving Bucky nothing to hide behind. Steve was a much better flyer than he was. Bucky felt exposed, helpless as Steve started to crush his windpipe. “I told you!”

“I didn’t know it was him!” Bucky gasped, trying to push himself away. “I didn’t know, Stevie!” They were descending now, too fast. Before Bucky knew it, they slammed into Vista Rock, and everything went black.

“Why, Bucky?” Steve moaned in the darkness. “Why?” There was a burning scar across his chest, and Bucky’s head ached like it had burst open like a ripe melon. He was lying in a pool of blood, and he could feel Steve’s teeth in his flesh. Bucky whimpered, unable to speak. It wasn’t the first time Steve had killed him, but it was the first time Steve’s anger had taken him completely by surprise. “I told you last time.” Steve was crying. Bucky could hear it in his voice. “Why did you make me do this?”

Bucky reached up to stroke his hair with shaking fingers. “Say you’re sorry,” Steve demanded. But Bucky couldn’t speak. He couldn’t tell how long he’d been out, or how close the sun was. When he was this weak, it all felt the same. “Let’s go home,” Steve said. The feeling of vertigo told Bucky Steve was carrying him, the wind in his hair, ice cold against his split scalp, that they were flying.

Impatient, Steve broke through the window to get into their apartment (again), and dragged Bucky to the trap door under the bed. There was a separate crawl space where Bucky slept when they wanted room apart, but apparently Steve wasn’t that mad at him. He heard the latch of the door closing, felt Steve’s smaller body settle on top of him. “Don’t do that again, Buck,” Steve begged him, whining, tearful. But it felt more like a warning.


End file.
